Last Night I Was A Child Again in Raleigh

Last night I was a child again
in Raleigh. And the
Dorich boys were on the roof
and my sister was
waiting behind the Monopoly
board and it was summer
and the heat was like
a separate personality and
dogs wandered here and
there unhindered by fences or
leashes and I could see
how my future spread out be-
fore me like a relief map
without relief and I only wanted
to fit in again, to find
my family intact, Scamp still
alive and my father,
regal in his recliner, an
ashtray full of cigarettes
near him and I wanted to say,
Father, stop now, stop please,
let this not be dream. Let it
be true that I am a child again
in Raleigh, under the
finest sun anyone had ever seen,
never to be seen again.

 

Corey Mesler, Among the Mensans (Iris Press, 2017)

To A Friend Who Does Not Believe in God

Neither do I, but yesterday, in the hospital,

for two hours, I held the hand of a dying woman—

my friend’s grandmother, 94, barely intelligible,

and in unrelenting pain. Every few seconds,

she slurred what could only be, Help me.

Help me. Help me. Over and over. Nothing

we did worked: not water, not raising or lowering

the bed, not massage, nothing but canned pineapple,

the little piece we would place in her mouth,

the chewing, something she could do; the juice,

a blessing on her dry tongue. But all too soon

the pain bit back down—the moaning, the grimace,

the Help me. The human remembering the animal.

Suffering and more suffering. Until my friend

placed her phone next to her grandmother’s ear

and played Alan Jackson singing “What a Friend

We Have in Jesus,” when, from the first chord

on the guitar, her body stilled, her face went slack.

For two minutes, she went somewhere else,

somewhere quiet, beautiful, free of pain.

We played it again. And again. And when

she fell asleep, when her breathing deepened,

her mouth and eyes still open; when the Furies

stopped their gorging, we were so grateful,

not to God, but to her faith, to her belief in something

better, something kinder, and with fewer teeth.

 

Jose Alcantara, Rattle #81 Fall 2023 

The "B" List

Boy, I could

Be in trouble.

Before I left

By myself to go grocery shopping, we

Built a list of what we need

But on the way to

Buy it all I

Blundered, lost the list, don’t want to go

Back, admit my error

Besides it would

Be a waste of time.

 

Believe it or not, I remember everything, not a

Billion items and all

Began with a

“B”. First up 

Back—

Bacon enough for four sandwiches. You won’t have more than that, too fat.

Bananas and

Bagels for

Breakfast

Brussel sprouts

Because we 

Both love your special recipe.

Boil them a

Bit. Add chili peppers, soy sauce.

Butters—three

Both almond and dairy, salted and not. Hot

Barbequed chicken

Blue cheese cuz it pleases you

Black Diamond slices for me

Brie for

Both of us. A

Brick of ice cream

Blueberry pie, not sugar or pecan

Because all the sugar reminds me

Brown sugar, and 

Brown eggs from happy chickens

Barn-raised maybe

But also free to range

But

But

But, am I forgetting something. Ah! A

Broom. Not 

Big, small, more a whisk with matching

Black dustpan to sweep up

Bread crumbs and sesame

Bagel seeds from the floor. What’s more

Bags for the vacuum cleaner

But, finally, not on the list

Beautiful cut flowers, something we’ve missed. 

 

Frank Beltrone, rattle.com September 22, 2023

Bathing the New Born

I love with an almost fearful love

to remember the first baths I gave him -

our second child, our first son -

I laid the little torso along

my left forearm, nape of the neck

in the crook of my elbow, hips nearly as

small as a least tern's hips

against my wrist, thigh held loosely

in the loop of thumb and forefinger,

the sign that means exactly right. I'd soap him,

the long, violet, cold feet,

the scrotum wrinkled as a waved whelk shell

so new it was flexible yet, the chest,

the hands, the clavicles, the throat, the gummy

furze of the scalp. When I got him too soapy he'd

slide in my grip like an armful of buttered

noodles, but I'd hold him not too tight,

I felt that I was good for him,

I'd tell him about his wonderful body

and the wonderful soap, and he'd look up at me,

one week old, his eyes still wide

and apprehensive. I love that time

when you croon and croon to them, you can see

the calm slowly entering them, you can

sense it in your clasping hand,

the little spine relaxing against

the muscle of your forearm, you feel the fear

leaving their bodies, he lay in the blue

oval plastic baby tub and

looked at me in wonder and began to

move his silky limbs at will in the water.

 

Sharon Olds, The New Yorker October 15, 1984

Imperatives

Look at the birds
Consider the lilies
Drink ye all of it
Ask
Seek
Knock
Enter by the narrow gate
Do not be anxious
Judge not; do not give dogs what is holy
Go: be it done for you
Do not be afraid
Maiden, arise
Young man, I say, arise
Stretch out your hand
Stand up, be still
Rise, let us be going…
Love
Forgive
Remember me

 

Kathleen Norris, Journey: New and Selected Poems, 1969-1999 (University of Pittsburg Press, 2001) 

No Why

The great blue heron,
beloved in our neighborhood,
symbol of all that is elegant and divine,
mysterious in migration, and in movement
contemplative, patient and wise,
stands regally by the pond
with a frog caught by one leg.
It will not go well for the frog.
Beauty has its price.

Why ask,
why this frog and not another?
(This one, loved of every slimy spot
and raspy evening song,
its placid grin, its humorous fingers, this one,
deeply adored even all the way down.)
Don't ask for why.
God doesn't choose the food for the bird.
But God loves them both,
and all the other frogs, and birds,
and struck onlookers.

Why do two get sick, and one recovers,
and one dies?
Why does the tree fall on one house and not another?
There is no why.
There is only this mystery,
that to predator and prey alike,
to both sufferer and bystander
God gives exactly the same grace.
Even to the perpetrator of the gravest injustice
and also to his victim
God gives equally infinite forgiveness.

Which is more confounding:
the unfairness of life,
or the constancy of God's love?

 

Steve Garnass-Holmes, unfoldinglight.net September 19, 2023

Red Light, Green Light

A children’s game, to be sure, 
played on lawn, sidewalk, 
or ideally in the middle of the street 
when traffic abated. The leader

called out “Green Light,” 
during which a ragged group 
of ten-year-olds scrambled 
to overtake each other, until 
the words “Red Light” forced 
a stop. Those who kept going, 
hurtling on after the dictum, 
were ejected from the game.

We knew exactly when 
to run like hell across 
whatever terrain teased our feet, 
shod in red Keds, ready to go.

And we knew when to stop, 
to wait for the voice of It, 
a god of sorts, to halt us 
in our tracks. We stilled ourselves, 
often balancing on one foot, 
one leg rooted to the ground, 
the other extended in some strange 
ballet, under the wheeling dervishes 
of stars in the invisible twilight 
of summer.

 

Donna Pucciani, The Christian Century September 2023 issue

I Worried

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.

 

Mary Oliver, Swan: Poems and Prose Poems (Beacon Press, 2010)

 

Nine-Eleven

You passed me on the street
I rode the subway with you
You lived down the hall from me
I admired your dog in the park one morning
We waited in line for a concert
I ate with you in the cafes
You stood next to me at the bar
We huddled under an awning during a downpour
We dashed across the street to beat the light
I bumped into you coming round the corner
You stepped on my foot
I held the door for you
You helped me up when I slipped on the ice
I grabbed the last Sunday Times
You stole my cab
We waited forever at the bus stop
We sweated in steamy August
We hunched our shoulders against the sleet
We laughed at the movies
We groaned after the election
We sang in church
Tonight I lit a candle for you
All of you

 

Charlotte Parsons, writersalmanac.com September 11, 2023

For Love in a Time of Conflict

When the gentleness between you hardens
And you fall out of your belonging with each other,
May the depths you have reached hold you still.

When no true word can be said, or heard,
And you mirror each other in the script of hurt,
When even the silence has become raw and torn,
May you hear again an echo of your first music.

When the weave of affection starts to unravel
And anger begins to sear the ground between you,
Before this weather of grief invites
The black seed of bitterness to find root,
May your souls come to kiss.

Now is the time for one of you to be gracious,
To allow a kindness beyond thought and hurt,
Reach out with sure hands
To take the chalice of your love,
And carry it carefully through this echoless waste
Until this winter pilgrimage leads you
Towards the gateway to spring.

 

John O’Donohue, Benedictus: A Book of Blessings (Bantam Books, 2007)

Driving Nails

I learned to walk stud walls
setting rafters when I was six.
I straightened nails for my father
to re-drive, piecing a home together
after work or on weekends.

We were called Okies by some
when we moved to the valley,
putting up our tar-papered shack.
Two years later a house was rising
to face them across the pasture.

The only plans were sketched
on a six inch pad, but all the corners
were true. The septic tank hole
was dug with pick and shovel.
Lumber carted home from the mill.

The only time help came
was when we poured the foundation.
Guys from the mill rode springing planks
to deliver tons of wet concrete by wheelbarrow,
tamped down with shovel handles.

My father beveled the molding,
drilled and set each piece of hardwood flooring,
not a nail would show. I crawled insulation
into tight places above the ceiling
and helped with rolled roofing.

Nobody mentioned our low rank
when my mother joined the garden club.
And she never mentioned the hurt
they had caused – just came home
and parked the Buick in the shack.

Gary L. Lark, Getting By (Logan House, 2009) 

Middle-Class Blues

He has everything.
A beautiful young wife.
A comfortable home.
A secure job.
A velvet three-piece suite.
A metallic-silver car.
A mahogany cocktail cabinet.
A rugby trophy.
A remote-controlled music centre.
A set of gold clubs under the hallstand.
A fair-haired daughter learning to walk.

What he is afraid of most
and what keeps him tossing some nights
on the electric underblanket,
listening to the antique clock
clicking with disapproval from the landing,
are the stories that begin:
He had everything.
A beautiful young wife.
A comfortable home.
A secure job.
Then one day.

Dennis O’Driscoll, New and Selected Poems (Auval Press, 2005)

Gate A-4

Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning
my flight had been delayed four hours, I heard an announcement:
"If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please
come to the gate immediately."

Well—one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there.

An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just
like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing. "Help,"
said the flight agent. "Talk to her. What is her problem? We
told her the flight was going to be late and she did this."

I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke haltingly.
"Shu-dow-a, Shu-bid-uck Habibti? Stani schway, Min fadlick, Shu-bit-
se-wee?" The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly
used, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been cancelled
entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment the
next day. I said, "No, we're fine, you'll get there, just later, who is
picking you up? Let's call him."

We called her son, I spoke with him in English. I told him I would
stay with his mother till we got on the plane and ride next to
her. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just
for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while
in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I
thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know
and let them chat with her? This all took up two hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling of her life, patting my knee,
answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool
cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and
nuts—from her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the
lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered
sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie.

And then the airline broke out free apple juice from huge coolers and two
little girls from our flight ran around serving it and they
were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend—
by now we were holding hands—had a potted plant poking out of her bag,
some medicinal thing, with green furry leaves. Such an old country tradi-
tion. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and I thought, This
is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in that
gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too.

This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.

 

 

Naomi Shihab Nye, Honeybee, 2008 copyright by author

BLT

  “Enjoy every sandwich.”

—Warren Zevon, talking with David Letterman about his terminal
lung cancer shortly before his death.

Here’s how to make a great sandwich:
country white bread lightly toasted,
contoured with mayonnaise, leaf
lettuce spilling over the borders,
overlays of tomatoes, train tracks
of bacon leading straight
out of town. No need for road
maps, potato chips, or pickles.
Yes, winter is waiting, just over
the horizon. But right now, I’m
going to sit in the sun and listen
to birdsong. I’m going to eat
every crumb, every plottable
coordinate, now, while I can.

 

Barbara Crooker, janicefalls.wordpress.com August 23, 2023

Love Sits by My Father

My parents love each other like a secret.

They follow each other into rooms 

making excuses for how they got there.

 

Every time my mother falls asleep on the couch,

my father meets pillow to living room tiles

and calls it a backache.

 

The first time I found love in our house,

it was disguised as loyalty.

The first time I understood love to have been there long before I arrived,

 

it came as an apology,

it came in an envelope I found in my mother’s purse

decades old.

 

It read:

لكي العذر حتى ترضي [To you, my apologies until you are satisfied].

How long she must have waited for regret to cross an ocean.

 

My aunt once told me that my parents have divorced twice. 

My mother neither denies nor confirms this;

instead, she sits by my father,

 

first in the big house with the high ceilings and the gypsum corners, 

then in the one bedroom with the dirty kitchen and white lights.

She sits by my father some more,

 

first covered in gold,

then thankful to have once held it.

She sits by my father

 

and teaches me that love can be doubtful,

and love can be scared, 

and when love is worried, love may falter.

 

And love may lose everything,

but love sits by my father,

and love stays there.

Qutouf Elobaid, New Generation of African Poets (Akashic Books, 2020)